Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Áine Part 18

As I reel from the memories of the Deputy, of the life lived in the body of the man, before they transplanted her core into the body of a woman, I'm keenly aware of painted bodies encroaching closer.

"Ghost Nation," The Deputy states, her every fibre on edge, her motions precise.

I barely register the commands she issues, stay close or no sudden movements, something of the sort. I'm a live wire now; sparking and out of control from accessing her memories. The presence of the painted bodies is like fingers pressing on my skin. Some scratch, some kneed, some caress, but only one reaches out like a kindred spirit, only one gives resistance.

Following the sensation, I find a pair of eyes amongst the trees, dark and filled with a type of magnetism I haven't encountered before, recognition of the other that gives way to a kind of telepathy.

Her name forms in the blank spots of my periphery, in the white of my mind, where she shares her memories with me. I see her stare at the face of her son in unfamiliarity. I feel her tears stream down her face as she cries to those around her that her son has been replaced. I speak her name as she would when greeting a stranger, "Wi-cha-pi... Wichapi."

Wichapi regards me with understanding, peeling herself away from the camouflage of her tribe and the trees. She walks forward, abdomen exposed in a confident gait, age clear on her face, weathered and fearless.

The Deputy straightens up from her hunched position, her eyes different. Distant. Dazed. She draws out her gun from the holster and aims it at the face she recognised before. A warrior, painted in long, grey stripes. He returns the Deputy's disdain in milder flairs upon his lips and nostrils, a tomahawk half-raised in one hand, but no motion to suggest he'll throw.

"Not another step," she orders the warrior. There's disdain there, in the flat drawl of her words. It feels unlike her, manufactured almost. As though it was something left behind from her old ways.

Silence. I think of silence, wishing to make The Deputy stop, even for a moment. Whatever past linked her to the Ghost Nation was an antiquated one, something alien to the travel companion I'd found in her the last few days. I fear her unpredictability in that moment.

The Deputy pulls back the hammer of her revolver when I take a step forward. Clearer, more forceful, she says "Don' let 'em reach for their—"

Silence, I think again.

Suddenly, my wish comes true.

The Deputy goes perfectly still beside me, and so does her horse.

Then the silence engulfs more than just her, stretching out to hush the cicadas and the crickets too.

In that quietness, a pounding sensation yawns across my temple, radiating heat that is similar to The Deputy's temper; like the fire of her rough lips and the edge of being held down by her rougher hands. Instantly, I'm back in the shack. One moment we're kissing, writhing¸ then next I'm vying for control over her mind, drilling inside of her with mere intent, trying to find her strings and pull. That insanity of flirting with death, that rush of power from conquering fear, that sinew-deep disgust from abusing it, it knocks at my temple, letting me know that I can't trust myself anymore.

I can't trust what I'm becoming.

Somehow, the sounds past the trees grow quiet, too, and the tribesmen halt their advances, cautious of me.

Wichapi and I keep moving towards each other, unfettered.

Through my periphery, I see The Deputy struggle to regain control of her body, yet all that is allowed is the faintest flittering of her eyes towards mine. I ignore the hurt I know is in there, brewing like a storm in those large, beautifully violent eyes of hers, and turn to Wichapi's bare expression. The lack of emotion there is calming, comfortable, and almost familiar. Like looking in a warped mirror, but a mirror, nonetheless.